The Spirit of Cattail County Read online

  A fire ignited in Sparrow’s belly. “Don’t you talk about my mama. She was a better Dalton than you.”

  Auntie Geraldine ignored Sparrow and strode across the kitchen to the phone. She punched in a number. “Mason. This is Geraldine.”

  Sparrow’s mouth went dry. Auntie Geraldine had no right to call Mason. The Castos were hers.

  Auntie Geraldine looked at Sparrow as she spoke. “It’s about my niece. She’s being punished. She’s not allowed to leave the property and I saw her today at the gas station with some of your kin.”

  Sparrow heard the deep tenor of Mason’s voice cut Auntie Geraldine off, but she was too far away to make out his words. She hoped he was telling Auntie Geraldine to stop picking on her.

  “Yes. Yes. That’s not the point,” Auntie Geraldine said curtly. “Please let them know they are not to socialize with Sparrow. If she shows up at your place of work or home, I expect you to send her away.”

  Auntie Geraldine became silent, but she squeezed the phone so tight the tips of her fingers turned white. Sparrow wondered if Mason was telling Auntie Geraldine that he was her father.

  After a rather long pause, Auntie Geraldine snapped, “It is not up to you to raise my niece. I’ll do what I see fit, and I expect you to respect my wishes.”

  Mason’s voice resonated from the other end of the line. Sparrow hoped Mason was telling Auntie Geraldine that she had no right to raise Sparrow at all and he was coming to claim her. Maybe he’d get in his truck and drive over tonight.

  “Thank you. Glad you understand. Good night.” Auntie Geraldine smiled smugly and hung up the phone. “Go over there and he’ll send you home. He’s agreed to tell Maeve and Johnny to stay away from you too.”

  Sparrow felt like she was sinking. She’d hung all her hopes on Maeve, Johnny, and Mason. In one phone call, Auntie Geraldine had bashed her dreams to pieces. Sparrow felt like a dinghy trying to survive a hurricane. “Why would you do that? Those are my friends.”

  Auntie Geraldine spoke with triumphant confidence. “You’ll learn who’s in charge one way or the other. I’ve already managed to make this house more livable, and I’ll make you easier to live with too.”

  Sparrow narrowed her eyes at Auntie Geraldine. She wondered what else Auntie Geraldine had planned. “What do you mean?”

  “You and I are done talking. Go to your room. Now.”

  Sparrow supposed they were done talking. She had nothing to say to Auntie Geraldine. She didn’t want to speak to her ever again.

  Sparrow climbed the stairs, each step like a plodding slog up a steep slope. Her body felt like lead.

  When she got to the top of the steps, she paused at Mama’s door. She hadn’t been in her room since she died. Sparrow wondered if it would smell like Mama. Feel like her. She missed Mama so much. She wanted to be close to her again.

  She pushed open the door.

  Shock engulfed her. The room was bare. The bed stripped.

  Sparrow ran into the room and pulled open Mama’s dresser drawers. Empty. Empty. Empty. She slammed each drawer closed with an unrelenting force.

  She yanked open the closet. Empty. She kicked it closed.

  Nothing of Mama remained.

  She had been wiped away.

  Auntie Geraldine stomped up the stairs. “What in the world is all that racket?”

  “Where’s Mama’s stuff?”

  “Donated it.”

  “Donated to who?”

  “The church, of course. That’s what you do when someone dies.”

  “You erased her.”

  “Don’t be overly dramatic. I did what needed to be done. Waiting wouldn’t have made it easier. You couldn’t have expected me to move all your mama’s stuff to my house. There’s no place to put it.”

  “I’ll never live with you at your house.”

  “You don’t have a choice. Dalton House has been sold.”

  “I hate you.”

  “I’m not very fond of you either.” Auntie Geraldine turned on her heels and went into her bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

  The tears arrived so fast and so hard that Sparrow’s breath came in ragged, body-wrenching gulps. She didn’t understand Auntie Geraldine at all. She had no heart.

  Sparrow gently pulled Mama’s door closed.

  She went to her bedroom and locked the door. She sat on the seat under the window that looked out over the marsh. The window was open, and Sparrow rested her head on the sill. She felt a grainy substance under her arms. More salt. At any other time, Sparrow would have investigated the salt, but all the curiosity, all the struggle had gone right out of her. Auntie Geraldine had won.

  Sparrow stared at the marsh and sought comfort from it. The waxing moon had risen bright as a beacon, flooding the night with light, and the entire nighttime vista was hers to view as if it were day. She saw the oak trees dripping with moss, the reed grass silhouetted against the dark sky, and something else too.

  Sparrow sat up.

  The Boy walked across the marsh in the moonlight.

  Sparrow grabbed her gum boots from her closet and crept into the hallway. The house was dark except for a small sliver of light shining under Auntie Geraldine’s door. Auntie Geraldine had gone to her room, but she was not asleep yet.

  Sparrow clutched her boots to her chest and inched down the stairs. Dalton House was an old building with creaky bones, and every step brought a moan of complaint. The world around Sparrow was so mouse quiet, it felt like the house was yelling at her.

  She was halfway down the steps when she heard Auntie Geraldine walking overhead. She pressed her body against the wall, seeking the shadows.

  Auntie Geraldine opened her bedroom door, and light flowed onto the landing.

  Sparrow slid down the wall, crouching into the darkest part of the stairs.

  Auntie Geraldine called out, “Sparrow?”

  Sparrow’s heart beat like a hummingbird’s.

  Auntie Geraldine stepped into the hallway, the hem of her white nightgown peeking out of her pink housecoat. “Sparrow?”

  Sparrow clasped her hand over her mouth to keep from answering.

  Auntie Geraldine looked at Sparrow’s door. It was shut with no light coming from beneath it. She scanned the hallway and then withdrew inside her room, shutting the door.

  Sparrow counted twenty Mississippis before moving again. When she did, she stayed low, half crawling, half sliding down the rest of the stairs, her heart still beating like it wished to take flight.

  She reached the bottom and scrutinized the front door, unsure of her ability to open it without alerting Auntie Geraldine. If the stairs grumbled, the front door shrieked like a banshee.

  Sparrow shifted her gum boots to a more secure hold and considered her options. She spied the window and tiptoed toward it. It stood about waist high and led to the front porch. That was her way out.

  She inched the lock open and gingerly coaxed the window up just enough for her to crawl through. She put her hand on the sill and a grainy substance prickled her palm. She paused, examining it. A thin line of white sand-like grains lined the window. She picked up a few grains and rubbed them between her fingers, then tasted them. More salt.

  Salt seemed to be everywhere these days. It was odd, but she didn’t have time to sort it out now. She didn’t want to risk the Boy leaving. She brushed the salt off the sill and scooched onto the porch.

  Her next obstacle was the screen door. Though it usually slammed shut loudly, it mostly did so because Sparrow wanted it to. If she treated it gently, it responded in kind.

  She eased it opened and squeezed out. Then held on to the door, guiding it closed until she heard the soft brush of lumber against lumber.

  She jumped from the front steps and landed softly in the grass. She pulled on her gum boots and sprinted across the lawn, her bare feet flopping around in the boots as she ran.

  Her escape from the house had taken longer than she’d wanted and she was afraid the Boy would be
gone, but when she reached the water’s edge, he was still there. He waded waist-deep in the water at the center of the marsh. His form glowed in the moonlight like a luminous fish. He wandered to and fro as if lost, repeating the pattern of his steps over and over, like a movie scene being rewound and replayed.

  Sparrow shuddered.

  She’d never been afraid of the Boy before, but now he looked positively ghostly. The sight chilled her to the bone, and she wondered what had happened to him.

  She took a tentative step toward him and her foot sank into the moist, spongy soil. She felt tepid water flow over the top of her boot and took a second tentative step. Both feet descended into the mud, and she felt the downward pull of the sucking silt.

  She paused, suddenly hyperaware of her surroundings.

  On the far bank, the mangrove trees grew in thick clumps, their shadowy forms silent sentinels guarding the ancient ecosystem. All around her, frogs wailed their deafening song and animals hunted. Folks assumed the marsh slept at night because that’s when people did, but the marsh was a nocturnal creature. It rested during the day, lazily basking in the sun. At night, it sprang to life.

  Sparrow swallowed, nervous.

  Though it was a cloudless night and she could see surprisingly well, the animals she most needed to respect wore the water like a cloak. Practically invisible, gators and cottonmouths glided through the marsh, barely making a ripple, their black eyes skimming the surface of the water. Either could be an inch from her, and she wouldn’t know it unless they wanted her to.

  Despite her fear, she took another step toward the Boy. She needed to go to him. This was the first time she’d seen him since they’d promised to help each other, and she had to find a way to reach him. Not only was the Boy her link to Mama, he was her friend and he needed help. He needed Sparrow.

  She took another step and then halted. A few feet in front of her, the water moved, and fear shot through her like a bolt of lightning.

  She took a slow, deliberate step backward.

  The hair on her neck prickled and out of the corner of her eye, she saw more movement. She froze. Then slowly turned her head. Passing before her was something so rare she’d assumed the tales and stories of it were pure myth.

  Twenty feet from Sparrow, a tawny Florida panther strode across the marsh, trailed by her spotted cub. Each stealthy step the panthers took showcased the rippled muscle and the unsurpassed strength that cemented their sovereignty over all other creatures.

  Sparrow held her pose, fighting the urge to flee. She knew better than to run from a predator. Sleek and sinewy, the panther lived by instinct. If Sparrow ran, the panther would chase, and her slight child’s body would offer no protection against the speed and might of the great cat.

  The panther and her baby strode leisurely through the marsh, the tall grasses bowing before them.

  Behind the cats, the Boy continued his ghostly pantomime unnoticed.

  The kitten mewed. The panther turned, licked his fur, and nudged him forward.

  When the panthers got parallel to Sparrow, they looked her way and growled, the baby’s bleat a weak imitation of his mother’s menacing snarl.

  In all her life, Sparrow had never felt such primal fear. Her instinct railed against her reason, demanding she run. It took all she had to stay rooted in place.

  The mother panther raised her lips, her teeth glinting in the moonlight. She growled another low warning and pushed her kitten in front of her. They moved on, taking their time, their rule of the land uncontested. The nighttime marsh was meant for panthers and ghosts, not girls. Sparrow wondered how she ever let herself believe she had sprung to life from the swamp. The swamp existed unto itself, and Auntie Geraldine’s warnings of the dangers of the marsh echoed in Sparrow’s memory. She suppressed a shudder.

  When the cats were far enough away that they were mere shadows in the dark, Sparrow took one slow step back, then another, until she was close enough to the house to run for the door.

  She flew through the screen door, adrenaline surging through her veins. It creaked, pushed to the limit of its hinges, and then started its journey home. Sparrow lunged for it, catching it before it slammed closed. She didn’t need to go from one close call to another.

  She slipped out of her boots, climbed back through the window, and eased it shut. Only a few hours earlier she felt everything coming together. Now it all slid away.

  Sparrow crept up the steps to her room, where she could view the marsh in safety. She went to the window and looked out. The mythical Florida panther was gone, but the Boy was there. He still wandered to and fro as if lost, playing and replaying his scene in the moonlight.

  Sparrow watched the Boy from her window. She hoped to find clues to unravel the mystery of his unexpected departure and unnerving return, but he only repeated the same ghostly pantomime over and over again, leaving her worried and confused. When she reluctantly went to bed, she fell into a deep sleep filled with swamp-tinged dreams of ghosts and panthers.

  The next morning, she awoke later than usual to a sun-soaked room.

  The sound of Auntie Geraldine’s footsteps on the hardwood downstairs broke through the haze of sleepiness and reminded Sparrow of all she had gained and lost the day before—the Boy, her chance to bring Mama back, Dalton House, Maeve, Johnny, Mason. All of it, Auntie Geraldine’s fault. Each time she thought Auntie Geraldine had done her worst, she found a new way to torment Sparrow.

  Auntie Geraldine didn’t call Sparrow down for breakfast. If she had, Sparrow wouldn’t have gone. She never wanted to see or speak to her again. Auntie Geraldine said she’d find something that Sparrow loved and rip it to shreds. True to her words, Auntie Geraldine had done just that. She’d given away all of Mama’s belongings, sold Dalton House, and told the Castos to stay away from her. Auntie Geraldine had done more than find one thing Sparrow loved. She’d found everything, except the Boy.

  At the thought of the Boy, a new wave of anguish washed over Sparrow. His disappearance and ghostly return tormented her. She didn’t know how or why the Boy had turned into a shade of his former self, but she refused to be robbed of him too. He was her only link to Mama, her only friend. Sparrow was headed for a hard life with Auntie Geraldine in Havisham, and she couldn’t bear it alone.

  Sparrow went to her opened window and leaned out. Under her palms she felt a gritty substance, but she didn’t bother to look at it. She already knew it was salt. The entire house was awash with the stuff.

  From her window, Sparrow looked down upon the covered porch and the long stretch of marsh that made up Dalton land. Her land. The night before, she’d almost let herself forget how much she loved it.

  Gingerly, she put one leg over the ledge. Then the other, and sat on the sill. Just to the left of her window, her favorite oak tree dripped with Spanish moss. It was a tall, broad beauty with thick, wide branches that reached toward her like arms.

  Sparrow leaped.

  The oak caught her, and Sparrow shimmied down its trunk to the ground.

  Under the sun’s caress, the marsh had turned friendly again. It called to Sparrow and, obediently, she answered.

  The tide was out. Forlorn puddles dotted the watershed, and the sandbar stretched all the way to the horizon.

  At the bank, Sparrow sank her bare feet into the silty sand. It felt good to let her feet descend into the rich, velvety mud. It squished between her toes and covered the tops of her feet, sucking her down until it wrapped around her ankles.

  She made her way to where the Boy stood the night before. Each step of her journey a fight against the pull of the marsh mud. Birds scattered and hermit crabs scampered as she walked deeper and deeper into their world.

  When she reached her destination, she tried to view it from the Boy’s perspective. Behind her, Dalton House sat on the marsh’s northern bank. Beulah was to the south, about a mile away, and to the west and east of where she stood, the sandbar cut a path to the sea.

  Between the darkness and th
e distance, it had been hard to tell which direction the Boy walked the night before. She couldn’t decide if he had walked toward Dalton House, town, or the sea. Each direction had different possibilities and likely different meanings. His reason for being in the marsh was a mystery. A mystery she needed to solve quickly if she had any hope of getting the Boy and Mama back before she no longer lived at Dalton House.

  The thought of saying goodbye to Dalton House and the marsh on top of what she’d already lost made Sparrow feel as forlorn as a whip-poor-will. As if sensing her anguish, the marsh sent a breeze that tickled the reed grass. The grass bowed and kissed the backs of her palms.

  Sparrow smiled at the marsh’s playfulness and allowed the delights of the marsh to soothe her. For the rest of the morning, she caught hermit crabs and let their feet tickle the palm of her hand before releasing them into their muddy homes. She watched tiny fish swim in the puddles left behind by the tide, and egrets silently stalk their prey. When she felt the tide start to rise and water, instead of mud, crest over her feet, she headed back to shore.

  As was typical with the marsh, she had wandered farther and deeper than she realized. By the time she made it back, the water touched her ankles, and the little fish swam freely, no longer trapped in the tidal pools.

  Exhausted from her excursion, Sparrow nestled up to an oak tree to watch the tide rise from the safety of shore. She admired the way the light slowly shifted as the sun moved across the sky and the way the marsh gradually changed as the water rose.

  As she sat watching the marsh, Sparrow thought about the way the Boy looked in the moonlight. He had wandered to and fro as if lost, repeating the pattern of his steps over and over, like a movie scene being rewound and replayed.

  Suddenly, Sparrow jumped up. She knew what the Boy had been doing in the marsh. He didn’t wander back and forth because he was lost.

  He was looking for something.

  Sparrow ran toward the house. When she got close, she crouched down to keep from being seen from the living room window. She crept up to it and peeked in. Auntie Geraldine sat on the couch, reading through a thick packet of papers. She was busy. Thank goodness, Sparrow thought.